


Anything

by lilsmartass



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Begging, Implied Torture, Implied Violence, M/M, Protective!Clint, kinkmeme fill, threatened non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: For this prompt at the meme  http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11264.html?thread=27783168#t27783168</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Soft R  
> Warning/Spoiler: Canon, near-fatal injury, offscreen/implied violence and torture, threatened non con  
> Pairing: Clint/Coulson (established  
> Disclaimer: Not mine :(

** Anything **

 

Clint knows, logically, from the trails of blood making their way from wrists to elbows where he is fighting, helplessly, against the too tight restraints, that his arms hurt. Probably badly. For himself, he can’t feel anything except for the crippling anger and nauseating fear ripping through him at the sight of Phil, bound on a low table in front of him. They’ve been tortured before, separately and together. This is worse than any of those times though, because on many of those other occasions the man with the knife (or whip, or electrical cables) had wanted information, information both of them would willingly suffer and die to keep out of hostile hands, and that fact gave them something to cling to. This time, he wants revenge. Again, not an entirely new situation, though undeniably unpleasant, and for a change Natasha isn’t elsewhere in the world running her own mission, she’s looking for them, she is, all they’d need to do was hold on, to wait, to banter through bloody teeth with one another about how this isn’t as bad as that time in Cuba (nothing is as bad as that time in Cuba, a drugged Natasha Romanov suffering flashbacks is unrivalled in its horror and danger factor).

But this...this really isn’t a good time. Phil still isn’t really healed from the incident with Loki. He’s still not been declared combat fit. God, left to his own devices Clint would still have Phil in a hospital, inches away from any medical attention he might need, but, husband or not, he won’t subject Phil to something he would never submit to himself.

They’ve been tortured before, and Clint has heard Phil’s entire repertoire of noises, from the pitiful whimpers and heart rending screams designed to make the bad guy think he is just another schmuck in a suit and leave him alone and untied, to the gritted sounds he makes when he really can’t keep silent any more. It takes a while to get to those usually. Phil is nothing if not stubborn, and his endurance is so high that Clint knows for a fact his psych profile lists him as borderline masochistic. Now though, when he’s already far weaker than any two bit villain with a fucking torture warehouse could have had any hope of finding him, when he’s already docile from the sheer amount of painkillers he’s hopped up on just to be able to take a quiet trip to a quiet burger joint they’ve always loved, the sounds they are forcing from him, unfeigned and pain-filled, are horrendous. That might be the worse part of all.

Clint can barely take his eyes from Phil’s sprawled form. He’s barely conscious, but at least the stitches over the worst of his chest wound have held. His eyes are round with not quite lucid terror and agony. He’s gasping in breath far, far too quickly, it sounds a little like sobbing but Clint categorically refuses to believe that this imbecile can reduce Phil to tears. It must be just the sound of his laboured breathing. It must be. 

The man raises the lighter he’s been tormenting Phil with for the past few minutes, and mutters something in an Eastern European accent. Clint catches the word ‘eyes’ as the lighter comes close to Phil’s face and sees Phil flinch back against his own bonds – a tell he would never succumb to if he were fully aware, not for a lighter, the lighter should barely hurt him. If this were for information, he would endure, he would have to, because Phil would never forgive him for anything less, but revenge is more personal, with revenge all he has to do is keep them alive until Natasha can get here.    

"Please, stop hurting him. You can do anything you want with me, but please, don't hurt him anymore." He hadn’t been planning the words, certainly hadn’t been planning the low, pleading tone, but he can’t regret either, not when it successfully captures the man’s attention and draws him around to face Clint. Clint doesn’t know him, doesn’t need to. Apparently he had killed the man’s brother, not unlikely, he’s killed a lot of people. This exact situation is something of an occupational hazard and normally, giving in would never even occur to him, but normally Phil would be correcting the guy’s torture technique in unruffled, placid tones.

The man hesitates, uncertain. “Why should I, when his suffering bothers you so much?”

Clint takes a second to gather himself, to think tactically. “It doesn’t _bother_ me,” he forces himself to say. “It’s just pathetic. He’s just a suit, just my accountant. This is a waste of your time and mine.”

The man steps forward, curious and unsure, but at least away from Phil, who takes the opportunity to pass out and slump forwards, curled in on himself as much as he’s able. Clint hopes he’ll stay that way, that way at least he won’t remember Clint trying to convince their attacker that he’s useless. Phil isn’t useless, and usually he’s more than aware of this fact, but he’s never been injuried out for so long, and Clint’s just been promoted form SHIELD agent to superhero. He knows the last thing Phil needs is an attack against his abilities, not matter how much of a calculated lie such an attack might be.

The guy takes another step, putting himself within Clint’s range. Clint could take him down in half a dozen different ways now, they haven’t tied his legs to anything, but he can’t free his wrists, and there are two ugly, muscle bound henchmen still standing next to Phil, leering smiles and hungry eyes focussed on the slender, shaking frame and Clint will not be able to disarm all of them before they can hurt him, possibly kill him, not chained as he is. He stays still, hands cuffed to the pipe behind him, slumped on his knees, and allows the guy to leer down at him.

“You know Hawkeye, I don’t think I like you attitude.” He turns again, reaching towards Phil. 

Clint forces himself to slump further, deliberately radiating submission now instead of his earlier defiance. He just needs to keep them alive until Natasha gets here, he reminds himself again. It won’t be long, these people are idiots. Alone, Clint would have incapacitated the lot of them and escaped long ago, he can’t do it while managing Phil’s dead weight though. The idiot won’t kill him, probably, he wants to toy with him, and Clint is better able to withstand that than Phil is right now. “Please,” he says again, eyes on the floor and voice whisper soft to hide the growl he knows is in it.

He reaches down and strokes the side of Clint’s face tenderly. It’s all Clint can do to keep from flinching away, not from the unwelcome intimacy, merely horrified at being caressed by hands stained with Phil’s blood. “You are sacrificing a great deal for him,” the man notes tauntingly 

He swallows, and hopes the gesture went unseen. He needs this man not to realise that the surest way to hurt him is to continue wrenching those pitiful noises out of Phil. He needs to take his place. He looks up, taking the opportunity to cant his head sarcastically and dislodge the still blood-tacky fingers from his jaw. “I’m an Avenger, saving people is in the job description. We get sacked if we let innocents get harmed in our places.”

“Really?” It’s one of the minions behind Phil. He sounds impressed. Clint keeps himself from laughing by thinking about how Natasha is never going to let him live down being kidnapped by these idiots.

The one who’s in charge tightens his grip on Clint’s jaw and looks down into his intense eyes, seemingly unaffected by the hard stare, “And if I had begged you to spare my brother Hawkeye?” he prompts.

Clint suspects that, “I don’t know who your brother is,” is not the answer this man is looking for. “I- ” he starts, stops, thinks. “Probably not. But you’re a better man than me, you’ve spent the last hour telling me so.” Telling him so while he cut into Phil’s helpless form. It’s something they should have been laughing about, but like this, it just isn’t funny.

“Maybe I misspoke,” he shifts as though to move.

“No,” Clint breaks out, hands twisting and desperate, more blood dripping to the ground, “He’s _unconscious_ for fuck’s sake. Surely you can have more fun with me.”

“I can have fun with you while I hurt him,” he grins down.

Clint swallows, this is where he gambles everything on these men being idiots. He looks up, through his lashes and imitates Natasha at her most seductive, still keeping enough furious fire in his eyes to appeal to a man who wants to make him suffer, “I’ll do anything if you’ll leave him alone.”

One of them starts at the word _anything_.

The one whose brother Clint apparently killed looks down at him, considering, Clint allows his tongue to flick out over his bottom lip. “Say please for me Hawkeye, beg me. Let’s hear how desperate you truly are.”

Clint stifles a sigh. He almost preferred fighting crazy alien robot eels, at least they weren’t so boringly predictable. He sneaks another look at Phil from under lowered lashes. He’ll have to remember not to make fun of these idiots in front of him, Phil will be horribly embarrassed about being reduced to this by them, he will not see an unhealed near fatal wound as an excuse and then he will blame himself for what Clint has no option but to do. Clint Barton does not beg. He just _doesn’t_. But here and now, it is that or watch Phil suffer, and for Phil, Clint would grovel to the devil himself and be grateful for the chance to do so. “Please,” he says sullenly.

The man laughs darkly, “Not even nearly good enough.” 

Clint scowls his distaste at his own knees, and chances another glace at Phil. He’s still unconscious, breath whistling as he sucks in air with too shallow breaths. He cannot let him near Phil, not again. He likely won’t survive another round. Clint takes a deep breath, and then another. He straightens his shoulders, and for the first time stops struggling. He just needs to hold out for Natasha. He can do this. “Please,” he says again, the same pleading tone that he used to get their attention in the first place. “Leave him alone.”

“Because you’ll do anything?”

Clint can’t, quite, keep the sneer off his face. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, “I’ll do anything.”

“You,” he gestures at one of the guys behind Phil, “untie him.” Clint tenses ready, surely it can’t be this easy, “and you,” he points at the other, “hold a gun on the other one. If this one so much as twitches in a way other than how I specifically ask him to, put a bullet in his knee.”

Clint can’t help but flinch, it’s a very effective threat. He relaxes as his shackles are undone and stays peacefully on his knees even once he’s released. He waits. He’s good at waiting.

“Dance for me.”

Clint blinks surprised, but slowly, hands carefully in view unfolds himself back to his feet. He takes a moment to flex his shoulders.

“Well?” the guy smirks and takes a seat, spreading his legs ostentatiously.

Clint glances at the door, but he can’t see or hear anything yet. “You want me to dance?” he questions, taking a step forward, hands still raised to show his hesitation wasn’t part of an attack. “I thought you’d want-” 

He breaks off at the harsh bark of laughter. “I could _make_ you do that. I want you to do something that I couldn’t force you to do. So dance.” Clint hesitates just a second longer. “Now.” The sound cracks through the room, echoed by the hammer of the gun clicking back 

Clint steps forward into the vee of the man’s legs. He forces his expression to blankness, eyes hard and cold as he looks at the far wall and begins to slowly, deliberately grind over the man’s crotch in a sensuous, circular movement. He wishes he at least knew his name, but damned if he’s going to ask.   

“Face me,” the man spins him with a tight grip on Clint’s hips. Clint resists slightly, hating to turn to where he can’t even see Phil, but after a second relaxes into the pressure and turns, the gun too much of a threat for him to throw his customary attitude problem around. The man’s smile is dark and predatory. “Tell me how much you want my cock Hawkeye.”

He can’t indulge in his usual banter, but he hopes his eyes are saying everything as he glares, scowls and says, “I want your cock more than anything. Want you to gag me with it, fuck me with it.” 

The man raises a hand as if to strike him and Clint determinedly holds himself still and then flinches helplessly anyway as the sound of a pistol hitting flesh and a low agonised groan echoes around the room.

His eyes are wide and betrayed as he growls, “Leave him alone. I’m doing everything you ask. I’m fucking doing it you bastard. Leave him alone!”

“Now, now Hawkeye, I asked you to tell me how much you want my cock. I want the truth.”

“I-” he lowers his eyes and admits in a raw voice, “It’s not complimentary and I don’t want to make you angry and have you take it out on him.”

“You’re very protective Hawkeye. Is he your lover?”

Clint doesn’t react. They don’t know anything, They can’t. They’re just trying to get him to make a mistake, to tell them something they can use.

After a moment there’s a low chuckle and the man says, “Never mind that then. Now answer my question, the truth this time, or the next thing I’ll have Lenny do with that gun won’t be hitting him with it.” 

Lenny. Clint stores the name away automatically. All the information that can lead to the capture of this man is important. “I don’t want your cock anywhere near me,” he chokes out. “If you try and make me I’d like to bite it off, ‘S’all fuckers like you deserve.”

“But you won’t.”

It’s not a question. Clint makes a frustrated noise in his throat, “But I won’t. If it’ll keep you away from him, I’ll choke it down, I’ll do my best to make sure you like it.” 

“I think he is your lover Hawkeye,” a hand wraps around his throat and tilts Clint’s chin up again, “You’re one of the mighty Avengers now, you wouldn’t offer to suck me off for just anybody. That’s against your code of conduct.” 

“You clearly have never googled Tony Stark,” Clint says disdainfully.

The man laughs and pushes him off his lap to land on the floor. Clint swallows dryly. He knows what’s coming next. He listens behind him for a second. Phil’s breathing is still hoarse and ragged, too quick and too shallow. There are no other sounds though, which suggests he hasn’t regained consciousness. He’d be trying to talk Clint out of this by now if he had. He thanks heaven for small mercies and prays to whatever god watches over wayward archers and uptight SHIELD agents, that Phil remains unconscious.

He’s so focussed that the sudden pounding feet outside and the breathless pale man that pushes the door inward take him by surprise. “We’ve got to get out.” The newcomer barks out, terror stark on his face. “There’s...some _thing_ coming for him, for them. It’s taken out _everyone_.”

Clint smiles, fierce and grim. He’ll have to remember to tell Natasha that she’s fearsome enough to have become a _thing_ in the eyes of the criminal underworld she hunts.

To his credit, their kidnapper doesn’t prevaricate and question. He stands quickly and says something in his native language. “It’ll be worse for you if you leave our bodies here,” Clint warns, voice would-be steady, because he’s far too aware that the finger on the trigger of the gun over Phil’s head is likely now shaken and panicky. “Leave us alive and you might just walk away from this, one of the few people who ever got one over on me.” It’s unlikely. Clint isn’t the type to go out avenging his own honour, but Natasha will think nothing of doing so, and they’ll be lucky if she’s all that comes after them and not the full force of Phil’s wrath. It sounds like friendly advice though, and if it works, that’ll be enough to satisfy him.

The man leans over him, and strokes his still bloodstained hand down Clint’s face, “Of course I wouldn’t kill you Hawkeye, we still have business to finish,” he croons. “Next time...”

“Next time I’ll make you eat your own teeth.”

“Next time, I think I’ll fuck you over his cooling body,” and he’s gone, silent as a shadow, henchmen in tow.

Clint doesn’t allow the threat to make him shaky even though it rocks him to the core. Nor does he allow himself to dwell on all the things he will do to this man now, when he finds him, which he will because the bastard was stupid enough to threaten Phil. That much is fact, and for another time.

For now he crawls over to Phil’s still sluggishly bleeding form. Skilful, practiced hands skim over what flesh he can see, noting broken bones and cuts. “Just hold on Phil, Natasha’s coming for us,” he murmurs into Phil’s skin and begins undoing the bindings holding him uncomfortably.

Halfway through, Phil partially regains consciousness and flails wildly at him with a wrist Clint knows is damaged. Instead of grabbing it and hurting it worse he dodges and angles himself so that he’s well in Phil’s vision and makes soothing sounds until he calms. At the sight of Clint standing over him, Phil’s body goes lax and pitches forward into him. Clint catches him, steadying the Agent from rolling fully off the table and to the unforgiving concrete underneath. It’s not comfortable but it is endurable. 

He’s still standing like that when, not Natasha, but Director Fury himself, black coat billowing as dramatically as Thor’s cloak and a distinctly unimpressed look in his eye, comes barrelling in. 

Clint raises an eyebrow in undeniable surprise and Fury snorts like an enraged bull. “You’re supposed to be keeping him out of trouble Barton.” 

“Yes sir,” Clint agrees, “but there were these kidnappers-” he falls silent at the look in the Director’s eye. The joke was flat anyway, the usual levity in his voice conspicuously absent.

Fury sighs and moves forward to take some of Phil’s weight. Clint angles himself into a better position and then immediately takes him back, lifting Phil bridal style, too wired by the events of the evening to be comfortable letting even Nick Fury too close. Fury lets him, which tells him all he needs to know about how wrecked his own poker face is. “You hurt Barton?” he demands gruffly.

Clint thinks about the abraded skin on his wrist, “No sir,” he says guiltily. 

Fury glares at him, obviously reading every thought in his head and finding them lacking, Clint can’t help but look away. “He’ll be fine Agent.”

“I know.”

“And he wouldn’t want you to be hurt.”

Clint just nods.

“Oh for- I already have to hold Stark’s hand Barton, I sure as hell don’t have time to hold yours. He’ll be fine, he’ll be glad you aren’t hurt. Get him back to base so medical can see to him and get your report in in a timely fashion and I may – may – see about not letting Romanov know that both you and Coulson managed to get yourselves snatched from Starbucks by a man whose biggest felony to date was attempted armed robbery.”

 

Put like that, it sounds like a good deal, and even Clint has better self preservation instincts than to deliberately bait Fury. “You hold Stark’s hand?” he questions impudently. Well, mostly better instincts.

 

 

 


End file.
